


patriots in arms

by orphan_account



Series: qui pro domina justitia sequitur [1]
Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Dramatization of Real Events, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Political Intrigue, Unresolved Sexual Tension, take my computer away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:37:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jim can't help but smile.At least Bob Mueller will be standing on the tracks with me.





	patriots in arms

**Author's Note:**

> Sequence of events, as well as certain lines (including the summary) taken from [here](https://www.washingtonian.com/2013/05/30/forged-under-firebob-mueller-and-jim-comeys-unusual-friendship/) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxHjWYA50Ds).
> 
> Some recommended reading would be [this](http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2017/05/18/james-comey-trump-special-prosecutor-robert-mueller-fbi-215154) but I'm guessing the type of people reading this fic have already read that article.

Jim Comey is not a man of solitude.

Yes, he is a man of introspection and deep reflection, but he is not the type of man who could so easily make decisions of life or death without at least _some_ consultation. And yet, here he is, in a situation where he’s been given some confidential and classified information, and the only person he can confide in is himself.

Well, himself, and one other.

And the first thing Bob Mueller says when Jim fills him in on the relevant details is, “Oh, _fuck_.”

“That was my first thought as well,” Jim says, the seriousness of his tone offcut by the smile tugging at his lips. “This is one of those times where I actually regret leaving the private sector.”

Bob lets out a chuckle that quickly drifts into a sigh. He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “I can’t believe it,” he says, slowly. “They think Ashcroft is going to sign it?”

“He’s supportive of the intent,” Jim says, “but he might have some concern about the finer details, what with the whole, well, you know…”

“I know,” Bob nods. He’s facing forward but his eyes are looking out into the distance, reflecting the turning cogs in his brain. He nods again, a little absently, before focusing in on Jim. “I think you could talk him out of it.”

Jim raises a brow. “Really?”

“Of course,” Bob says. “You’ve got real, genuine concerns about this program and if you just tell Ashcroft what you told me, I’m sure he’ll see it your way and we can stop it in its tracks.”

“You really think I could do that?” Jim says, unsteadily. He purses his lips and looks away slightly. “I don’t know… the administration is awfully keen on getting the program renewed, and if Jack Goldsmith and Pat Philbin couldn’t stop it, what makes you think I could?”

Bob shrugs. “Do I need a reason to believe in you?”

“I’d like one, yes.”

The two laugh, briefly, but it’s enough to let some of the tension loosen from Jim’s shoulders. God, it feels so nice to be able to talk about something like this with someone like Bob. He doesn’t stop his smile and eventually concedes, “Fine, fine, I’ll set up a meeting with him as soon as I’ve got all the proper evidence in order.”

“There we go,” Bob smiles back. He leans across the desk and playfully hits Jim’s arm. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you did,” Jim says. He rubs his arm a little and stands up. “I’ll let you know what happens with it.” He’s just about to open the door and duck down to get out when he hears Bob clear his throat.

“Thanks for letting me know all about this, Jim,” he says. “I don’t think any of the others would’ve wanted me in on this.”

“I don’t know why,” Jim says. “You’re a smart and intelligent man and… I trust you.” There’s something about the way Bob looks that makes Jim catch his breath, but he’s already stepping out the door before he can think of it further.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“All right,” Ashcroft says, finally, and Jim thinks he’s going to melt into the chair with how relieved he feels. “All right,” he says again, “I’ll talk to Cheney and the others, see if they can change it by next week. Otherwise, I won’t sign it.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” Jim replies. He sounds surprisingly composed for someone who just had one of their greatest worries alleviated in the matter of an hour.

“It’s just part of the job, Jim,” Ashcroft replies, but the smirk he gives Jim is a little self-satisfied and Jim returns one in kind.

When Ashcroft is in the hospital, when Jim gets the call that he’s now the Acting Attorney General, the first words out of his mouth are, “Aw, _fuck_.”

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Bob tries to assure him when they’re on their way to deliver the briefing to Bush. “I mean, now you can make the decision all by yourself.”

Jim gives him a look. “That’s the _exact_ situation I wanted to avoid.”

“I know,” Bob says. He leans over and squeezes Jim’s shoulder. “But that’s _exactly_ why you’re the man for the job. I know you’ll make the right decision.”

The hand is warm and comforting and Jim is spared from answering it once the car stops and they’re at the White House to brief the President. Their arms brush, very briefly, when they both reach over to open the door to the Oval Office and Jim can’t stop thinking about that touch throughout the entire briefing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the key players assembled in one room, and yet not a single decision seems to be in the making. Bob’s there in the room, by Jim’s side, as they watch groups come in and go out, each trying to explain how vital and useful and essential Stellar Wind is.

Jim doesn’t know how many presentations have gone by when he finally says at one of them, “That’s not helping me.” It’s after that group finally leaves that he looks around and explains to the room about his problems.

“I can’t find a legal basis for the program,” he says. He’s acutely aware that all eyes are on him and it’s hard to avoid shifting in his chair. He clears his throat. “The analysis is flawed — in fact, fatally flawed. No lawyer reading that could reasonably rely on it.”

Addington scoffs from the corner of the room. “Well, I’m a lawyer,” he huffs, “and I did.”

“No _good_ lawyer,” Jim snaps in response.

The room is silent. Cheney looks murderous, Addington’s mouth is hanging open in unabashed shock, Jack is covering his face and evidently trying not to laugh, and Bob keeps his mouth pressed in a firm line.

Their eyes meet, briefly, and it’s clear to both of them that this matter won’t be resolved quietly. That it might lead to an all-out war in the West Wing.

 _Are you ready_? Bob seems to ask.

 _I don’t know_ , Jim thinks.

He can’t wait for this to finally end. Except the end seems nowhere in sight.

Later, much later, when they’re all about to head home for the night, Jim mumbles under his breath, “ _Dick_ Cheney.”

Bob stifles a snort. “That’s a terrible joke,” he whispers.

Jim’s eyes are lit with mirth when he replies, “Ah, but you laughed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something is about to happen, Jim knows. He can feel it in the air that morning, see it in Card’s eyes as he and Bob passed his office. Something is about to happen and he doesn’t know what he can do about it.

 _A freight train is heading down the tracks, about to derail me, my family, and my career_ , he thinks, and then his gaze turns to the man beside him, to Bob, lost in thought as he looks out the window. Jim can’t help but smile. _At least Bob Mueller will be standing on the tracks with me._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The moment Jim hangs up with David, he calls Bob.

“Card and Gonzales are going to see Ashcroft at the hospital,” he says. “It’s not a social visit.” He hopes Bob will understand.

Bob evidently does, because all he responds with is, “I’ll be right there.”

Jim makes a mental note to somehow get his security detail a raise because they get to the hospital in a matter of minutes. He runs up the steps, two at a time – being over six and a half feet has _some_ benefits – and it’s almost a miracle that they get to Ashcroft’s room before anyone else does.

“How is he?” Jim asks his wife – Mrs. Ashcroft, he can’t remember her first name off the top of his head.

“Not very good,” she says, hands fidgeting with worry. She frowns down at Ashcroft’s form, at the man himself as he let out a quiet groan of pain.

“Mr. Ashcroft, can you hear me?” Jim asks. He bends down and presses a hand to Ashcroft’s forehead, trying to gauge his state. “John? Are you there?”

When Ashcroft doesn’t respond – at least, not coherently, Jim hurries out of the room and gets back on the phone with Bob. “How far are you?”

“Stuck in a bit of traffic,” he admits. “Are you there already?”

“I am. Others are on their way.” He pauses a moment. “Gonzales and Card, they’ll probably get Secret Service to kick everyone out of the room so they can get Ashcroft alone to force him to sign it.”

“They won’t,” Bob promises. “I talked to the security detail. They’ll make sure you and the other Justice Department officials are able to stay in, no matter what happens.”

Jim lets out a sigh of relief. “Thanks for that,” he says. “I hope you can get here before they do.”

“Hope so too,” Bob replies.

Jack and Pat finally get there just as Jim’s hanging up with Bob. He wipes his brow and stands up straight, still breathing rather heavily. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Gonzales and Card are on their way.”

Pat’s eyes widen. “Oh, _shit_ ,” he says, plainly.

“Exactly.” He gestures them inside, plopping himself on one of the uncomfortable armchairs by the bed, and it’s literal seconds later when Gonzales and Card finally arrive.

To his credit, Card looks rather uneasy at being there, staring resolutely at the ground or ceiling and trying not to look anyone in the eye, but all Gonzales does is walk straight up to Ashcroft’s bedside and starts talking.

No one else is acknowledged, not even Mrs. Ashcroft, as she holds onto her husband’s arm and squeezes life into his hands, and Jim’s all but ready to speak up when the unthinkable happens.

Ashcroft lifts his head and speaks. He talks, carefully but substantially, all about his reasoning behind not signing off on the reauthorization. Jim barely realizes what’s happening, not until Ashcroft points to him and says, “But that doesn’t matter, because I’m not the attorney general. There’s the attorney general.”

No one says anything again, not after Ashcroft sets his head back down on the pillow and closes his eyes, and then, without looking at Jim once, Gonzales and Card leave.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jack says, after a moment.

“You can say that again,” Jim says. It’s barely a few minutes later when Bob finally enters, barely out of breath and immaculate as ever. They meet in the doorway, Jim ducking his head slightly so he can meet Bob’s eyes, full of concern and worry.

“I saw them leaving just now,” he says, carefully. “What happened?”

Jim tells him. He’s not sure of his exact words, of Ashcroft’s exact words either, but the more he talks, the wider Bob’s eyes get until he’s all but laughing in Jim’s face.

“You’re shitting me,” he deadpans.

“I’m not,” Jim assures, and he realizes he’s pushing back a hysterical grin. “I’m really not.”

Bob brushes past him and enters the room. Jack and Pat stop pacing anxiously but Bob just walks over to Ashcroft, who’s awake again but whatever coherence he may have had earlier has now quickly diminished.

“Bob,” he says, voice unsteady, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“There comes a time in every man’s life when he’s being tested,” Bob says, bending down a little to put his hand on Ashcroft’s shoulder, “and you passed your test tonight.”

Mrs. Ashcroft lets out the slightest of smiles and kisses her husband’s hand, and Jim feels the air dissipate in his chest. He’s not sure what he’s going to do next, but life takes the choice away from him when an aide clears his throat and tells him there’s a call for him in the command center.

Bob’s waiting for him when he gets out, along with Jack and Pat, and for a good moment, none of them say a word. Then Jim dusts off his suit and takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says, we’d best get back to the Justice Department.”

“Saturday Night Massacre,” Jack says, apropos nothing, or apropos everything.

Jim swallows hard before he nods. “Not exactly Saturday night though, is it?”

Bob is the only one who laughs and Jim lets himself smile a little as the four of them start heading down to their cars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His security detail drops him off back at the Justice Department, after the White House, but he doesn’t even need to enter the building because Bob’s standing out there with the files Jim needed under his arm.

“Send your detail home,” he says. “You can hitch a ride with mine.”

Jim shakes his head a little. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Bob replies, and that’s how Jim finds himself sitting in the back of Bob’s SUV, just like they’re heading to or from the White House for a daily brief. The streets are clear and the stars are still out and all is quiet.

“Thank you,” Jim says, after a few moments.

Bob looks up from out the window and raises a brow. “For what?”

“Everything.” He shrugs. “Listening to me, talking with me, being on my side. Agreeing to resign with the rest of us.”

“Hey,” Bob says, leaning forward and resting his hand on Jim’s leg. “Hey,” he says again, “we’re all in this together. We’re doing the right thing.”

Jim licks his lips, nervously or otherwise. “You really think so?” he asks. His voice comes out softer than intended but it doesn’t change anything.

“I know so,” Bob replies. His voice is deep and assuring and his eyes, warm and piercing. Piercing right through Jim’s worries and anxieties and right into his heart.

The car has stopped. Jim’s not sure for how long. John is staring resolutely at the road ahead from what Jim can tell from the corner of his eye, but he’s not focused on that. He’s focused on Bob’s eyes ahead of him, serene and beautiful.

Jim blinks. “I should get inside,” he says. His voice is still too soft and he clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah,” Bob replies. His voice is softer too and he too clears his throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There’s a brief awkward moment where neither of them move, then John sneezes and Jim all but jumps out of the car. He doesn’t unlock the door, not until Bob’s car has turned the corner and disappeared into the night.

His hands are shaking, just a little, and if he closes his eyes, he can still see his face.

He heads inside and straight to bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bob calls him Thursday night, while Jim is heading home. He’s on Constitution Avenue again. It feels like he’s always on Constitution Avenue, if he’s being honest with himself.

“Come over,” he says, plainly. There’s not much he needs to add – tomorrow will be their last day before they resign Monday morning, they might never see each other again after that and just the thought is enough to unsteady Jim.

He clears his throat. “All right.”

They hang up without a goodbye and Jim rests his head against the window, watching the city pass him by. It’s a quiet night, despite everything that’s about to happen, and it feels so strange.

Bob greets him at the door when he gets there. There's a weariness to him, a certain stress in his movements, like he's in physical pain. Jim can only relate – the last few days have been incredibly harsh.

Still, Bob greets him with the warmest of smiles. "I'm glad you could make it," he says.

Jim returns the smile. "Of course," he says. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." And that's true – there's no way he would even consider missing a moment like this, not when they have so precious few to spare. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack. “Where are the wife and kids?”

“Out for the night, on business,” Bob replies. He heads to the kitchen and Jim follows, ducking his head to avoid the ceiling fan. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he continues, “but, well… I didn’t want to spend a night like this alone.”

“Hey,” Jim says, and he puts a hand on Bob’s shoulder, smiling softly down at him, “you’re not alone.”

Bob smiles back and Jim’s heart feels like it skips a beat.

They talk, mostly about the Madrid bombings, sometimes about some other security threat, never about Stellar Wind or the fallout from tomorrow after they decide to resign. The food is delicious and they both drink wine even though neither of them are wine drinkers, shifting from chairs in the dining room to the couch in the living room to the bed in the bedroom.

Jim’s face feels pink and he thinks he’s smiling too much but Bob laughs loudly at every joke and there’s a pleasant buzz in his brain and for once, he doesn’t feel worried or stressed. He feels nice, he feels good.

They’re sitting side by side, legs touching and arms brushing and when they’re sitting together, Jim doesn’t have to look down and Bob doesn’t have to look up and they’re looking at each other and Jim’s not really sure if he’s saying this or thinking this but Bob, you have the most beautiful eyes.

“I think your eyes are beautiful,” Bob replies.

Jim feels his face heat up and he chuckles, almost meekly. He thinks about looking away, even if it’s just to grab his glass and drink again, but Bob is still looking at him and he’s still looking at Bob and Bob really is beautiful, so beautiful.

It’s an awkward kiss, their first one. Their teeth bump at first and Bob nearly spills his wine all over his shirt, but then he sets the glass down and his thumb rubs the edge of Jim’s cheek and they kiss again, slow and languid. They don’t want to rush, not at all, and they’ve got all night.

Bob’s hand cups his face and Jim’s hands curl anxiously in his lap. He’s not really sure of what to do, that is, until he stops thinking about it, and then his hands move and he’s pulling Bob closer, fingers carding through his hair, salt and pepper and soft. The kiss turns a tad desperate with tongue and everything, but Bob brushes his fingers down his neck and Jim lets out a slight moan.

His back is pressed against the mattress somehow and he pulls away, just briefly, just to adjust himself so he’s kicked off his shoes and he’s not digging any of his limbs into Bob, and Bob takes his time to start and unbutton the collar of Jim’s shirt.

There are questions on the tip of Jim’s tongue and there’s a lot he wants to say, but there’s a part of him that knows that if he says anything now, he might ruin the moment and that’s the last thing he wants. Bob runs his fingers down Jim’s chest and Jim trails kisses down the side of Bob’s jaw. He stops just short of leaving bruises but he wants to, he really wants to, he really wants Bob to know how much he means to him.

How much he loves him.

Jim moves himself out from underneath Bob and slides off the bed, kneeling down in front of him as Bob sits up straight and looks down at him. They share a silent exchange, pupils blown and lips pink, and then Bob pulls down his pants and underwear, and Jim moves to take his dick in his mouth.

It's awkward at first, only because Jim isn’t quite sure of what he’s doing, but he does his best because that’s what he does. He hollows out his cheeks and sucks, tongue tracing lines and teeth barely grazing his skin. Bob’s hand on his head is a grounding presence and the soft groans he lets out are enough to keep Jim going. He uses his hand a little for the parts he can’t reach, rubbing almost furiously while he holds onto Bob’s thigh for support.

It’s not long, for they’re not young, when Bob suddenly tightens his grip and Jim pulls away seconds before Bob comes with a soft moan. Jim wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and climbs back on the bed, sitting back beside Bob. He’d be surprised if Bob kisses him again but that’s exactly what happens – Bob leans over and kisses the corner of his mouth, hands pulling off Jim’s belt and digging into his pants until they’re gripping at his dick.

Bob is relentless in his teasing, sliding up and down his shaft and pausing sometimes, just to hear the desperation in the noises Jim makes before starting the whole process all over again. Jim rests his head on Bob’s shoulder and he moans in his ear as he spills into his pants.

They’re both breathing heavily, thoroughly spent, leaning on each other. Jim turns his head and Bob turns his head and their foreheads touch as they breathe in each other’s air. Jim’s eyes flutter closed and they don’t say anything for a long moment.

“Stay the night,” Bob finally says. The mournful rejection is just on the tip of Jim’s tongue when Bob adds, “Please.”

And Jim can’t deny him so he says, “Okay,” and he spends the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s when he and Bush speak, one on one, that Jim realizes how in the dark the President was in all these matters. Of the whole war between the Justice Department and the White House and the bomb that would be dropped.

He looks so earnest, genuinely smiling when Jim quoted Martin Luther at him, and so Jim has no choice but to at least warn him of the impending doom. He clears his throat. “I think you should know,” he says, “that Director Mueller is going to resign today.”

The shock in his face is as clear as day and Jim actually feels sorry for him. Though, not enough not to get pissed when he’s waiting downstairs and Bob is upstairs, their positions reversed now as the other speaks with the President.

Bob’s face is impassive as he walks down the stairs, but when he meets Jim’s eyes, the corners of his mouth lift.

“What did the President say?” Jim asks. They step together, walking fast all of a sudden, until they’re finally back at the car.

“John,” Bob says, “could you stay out for a moment so Jim and I can speak alone?”

John nods and opens the door for the two of them, and it’s the second that the door slams shut that Bob turns to Jim and kisses him.

It’s nothing like the kisses last night, more impromptu and delighted than the others, but Jim still reacts the same way and it takes him a few moments to understand what’s happening. Bob’s hands are still on his face and he asks, again, “What – what did the President say?”

“He said to tell you to do what Justice thinks needs to be done,” Bob replies, eyes sparkling.

“Oh,” Jim says, rather anticlimactically, and then he starts to laugh. Bob starts laughing too and they’re both leaning on each other, hands gripping at each other’s coats and tears threatening to spill from their eyes.

“That was easy,” Jim jokes. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, still smiling.

“Incredibly,” Bob agrees. “Though, it’s not over yet. We’ll probably have to be back in a couple of moments to start hashing out the details with other officials. And by that, I just mean Cheney.”

“ _Dick_ Cheney,” Jim corrects, and they start laughing again. He shakes his head. “We’ll get through it though, won’t we?”

“Of course,” Bob says. “We can get through anything.”

John enters the car and a few seconds later, they’re driving out of the gates. They don’t say much during the drive, staring out the windows, but in the seat between them, their fingers brush and sparks fly down Jim’s spine.

He smiles again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s watching CNN when he gets the call. There’s no preamble, there doesn’t need to be. Bob gets straight to the point. “Rosenstein’s naming me special counsel on the Russia case.”

Jim laughs, loud and blatant. “Trump has no idea what’s coming for him,” he grins.

“No, he doesn’t,” Bob hums, smile evident in his tone. “Ready to make waves with me again, Jim?”

“Yeah,” Jim replies. “I’m always ready for you.”

“Good,” Bob says, and Jim can’t stop smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> "hey so what did u do when a special counsel was called for the russia investigation"  
> "uhhhh....."


End file.
